Speed

6:30 AM.
Connecticut River.
I place my single in the water,
oars locked tight.
Shoving off, tentative strokes
to get the boat away.
Passing under the bridge.
How many people get to see
what the underside of the bridge
they drive on every day looks like?
Through the currents to silence
and a river turned orange,
the water flat like glass.
I almost feel guilty for disturbing it.
But then I remember
water does not need to train to go fast.
All it needs is a good rainfall
or a particularly bad winter in New Hampshire.
So I press on, swinging, striving, searching,
searching for speed.